


Brigadiscord Microfiction

by mellonbread



Category: Brigador (Video Game), The Laundry Files - Charles Stross
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Masturbation, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-11-18 05:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18114425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellonbread/pseuds/mellonbread
Summary: Short pieces previously posted on the Brigador Discord





	1. Consultant Services

Marvin Beck bent over the printouts that had come through the fax on the latest synch. A Spacer design, Clade Vocc’s most famous. He’d seen photos, vids. This was different. This was the actual technical data for the thing - blueprints, fabrication specs, armaments. The Concern had held up its end of the bargain.   
  
Marvin looked at the legs. Turned to the page that explained in minute detail how the joints came together, the pistons and valves that acted as the muscles beneath the outer coating that shone like blue porcelain in the tapes. The place where the legs met the hips and the hips met the waist, the ball-and-socket joints on the shoulders. The arms, seemingly frozen in a perpetual embrace.  
  
He grabbed his dick.

* * *

 

Efigenia Tseng peered through the Tinker’s targeting system, weapon rangefinders and trajectories overlaid across her vision courtesy of her cranial jack. This area had been designated a free fire zone, and the apartment complex in her sights was a well known Corvid staging ground. The neighborhood had been ordered to evacuate well in advance, anyone still left in the building was hostile.

Efi laid the guns on the leftmost tower, pressed her thighs together and squeezed the firing stud for her left gun mount, squeezing the right about a quarter second later. The twin 40mm chainguns fired one after another, sending a continuous vibration up through her seat. She bit her lip, rotated the turret slowly to the right, and continued firing until both the job, and she, were finished.

* * *

 

Cephei Chatfield floated in microgravity, protected from the shuttle’s acceleration and deceleration by the gel that filled the room around him, ensconcing him in its protective membrane and filling his body cavities against dangerous G forces. He used the time to peruse the dossiers that had landed on his “desk”. He dictated colorful summaries of their contents, succinct briefings delivered with panache. He stopped. Returned to the one he’d just completed.

He looked at the dirt eater’s dense and abhorrently muscled body. He read of the man’s appetite for mindless violence. He imagined the scarred, crudely shaven curve of the man’s skull. The thick fingers and rough hands. Cephei told the control gel to exert pressure on his body, to bind his limbs until he said otherwise. To stop him from cracking his teeth or biting through his tongue. He still had a kilosecond before the shuttle reached its destination, and it wouldn’t do to arrive at the meeting with a distraction on his mind…

* * *

 

Beynder knocked back another 2 milligrams of store brand antifatigue ration, washing it down with coffee. The contents of his inbox seemed to multiply fractally when he wasn’t looking, always different but always the same, yet never below the threshold where they could be resolved without his intervention.

And a message on the private channel, his intranet-within-an-intranet.

abt the consultants u hired, B - u wnt 2 c this

Against his better judgement, he opened the attached file.


	2. Ye Dragons and All Deeps

The Auditor slid from the hood of the Arlo and dropped onto the thrice-cursed surface of the planet. Another Spacer would have stumbled like a newborn fawn, dripping control jelly like afterbirth and amniotic fluid. The Auditor stood straight, a death spirit who walked without feet.  
  
In front of her was a powersuit, the oldest she had ever seen. It was a tool of war and the man inside was worshipped as a devil by primitive peoples, much like herself.  
  
The hood of the fighting machine opened. The man inside was dead. A living buddha entombed in the reliquary of the cockpit. A cranial jack connected the long dead skull to the machine’s interface computer, ancient even by colonial standards. The bones did not move. A rangefinding eye glowered at the Auditor from the dead man’s helmet, the only sensory organ on that porcelain face.  
  
The Auditor peeled back the suit membrane covering her hand, delicately removing the glove that was now her skin. Her digits had the leperous texture of rare steak, and even the air was painful to touch. The powersuit bearing the ossuary stepped toward her with grace that she knew was impossible for such a crude machine. She placed one foot on the access rung, pulling herself up to stand level with the dead man inside.  
  
The Auditor felt something. A function her cleaned immune system and carefully regulated metabolism had not performed of her own instruction. She reached with her naked hand and took the skeleton’s hand from the control yoke for the suit’s manipulator arm. Laced her fingers with his. Ignored the agony that the slightest touch inflicted on her bare skin.  
  
A tiny sun bloomed in the distance, rendering the scene in black and white and vaporizing a million people. The death spirit and the dead man held hands.


	3. Howard's got a Black Hand/He'll look around the room, he won't tell you his plans

If you're a student of the magic arts, you know how to make a hand of glory. Take the hand of a hanged man (or woman, or rhesus monkey, or pigeon), throw on your summoning geometries, and you've got a minor key that grants the operator invisibility to the naked eye, and anything else save the most powerful defensive wards. Simple, effective, you could make one with a fresh corpse and a pen knife - I know because I had to do it once, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. That's your HOG Number 3 according to Security Office. Add a mirrored base to the wrist and you reflect the summoning back out through the nerve channels in the fingers, terminating in an energy pulse that burns through any metal, Kevlar or flesh unfortunate enough to be in the way. Add a manual safety, pick a suitably unguessable word of power to activate it and call it the HOG No 3 Star.  
  
What you don't know, because the Laundry has gone VERY far out of its way to make sure you don't know, is how to make a Black Hand. Start with an HOG No 3 Star, dip in a very specific paint that interacts with coherent beams of light on a subatomic level. Persuades photons to get their ass in gear and tighten up their wavelength until they go from visible light to gamma rays. If you aren’t a nuclear physicist, take it from me: this is the radiation your mother warned you about. If you’re lucky, one pulse from a black hand gives you third degree burns across your entire body and cancer in a month or two. At close range, it turns your GI tract to soup, and you don’t live long enough to grow into your tumors. Useless as a self-defense weapon – gammas could kill your assailant dead in a manner of minutes, but that’s more than enough time for them to squeeze a trigger or stick something sharp in you. It could conceivably be used to fry hardened electronics, which is something I’ve needed to do on occasion, but smearing thermite on the case does the same trick and the backscatter doesn’t give you leukemia.  
  
The main legitimate use is as a cheap source of gammas for research applications – that’s how Brains originally discovered the effect. Yes, that Brains. Story goes that he was working on one of those physics experiments, the kind he used to do in the basement when we shared a flat. Maybe he was exploring how Dho Hna curves interact with high levels of radiation, maybe he was still trying to make an omelet without breaking the egg. He had the common sense to test it from behind some very thick, very dense shielding – the Plumbers got to clean up the mess without scraping his liquified remains off the ley lines. Good thing too. Brains might have had some nasty habits, like forgetting to put the lid back on the peanut butter, or leaving his summoning grid on at odd hours, but I like him better with his intestines on the inside. They invented a new special access clearance to swear him to and covered the whole thing up. I wouldn’t be writing about it if putting together these memoirs wasn’t a requirement of my job. A little bit of knowledge goes a long way – knowledge that would let any hobby-terrorist with a chip on his shoulder and a lucky rabbit’s foot carry around a mini Chernobyl in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was reading one of those Laundry Files books, and they use something called a Hand of Glory as a personal energy weapon. There's a natural synergy there with everyone's favorite Small Hardpoint weapon in Brigador.


	4. Brigadiscord Lewdsposting

Swede-tan's hair was plastered to her face with perspiration- moreso than usual. She'd never met anyone who could match her stamina like this. Every part of her short, wide body ached when she rolled over to reach for her canteen.

James rattled

* * *

Kennedy Spits licked her lips. Pires wasn't sure what that meant. Kennedy licked her lips at a lot of things. Sometimes it meant she was looking for expensive drugs and a cheap lay. Sometimes it meant she was thinking about doing something horrible to you. Sometimes, her lips were dry.

* * *

"Do you have to wear that fucking thing to bed?" Even without his glasses, he could make out the outline of the Loyalist pilot's helmet, like an olive green wig ensconcing the rosy blur of her face, the pinpoint of her cigarette.

"Shut up."

The septuagenarian rolled over on his side, grumbling.  "God, I can't even imagine what your hair must stink like, if you never-"

Scottie put the cigarette out on the back of his neck

* * *

Touro tan shrugged her jacket off. So what if this schlub had worn out her sweaty dwarf of a sister? She could handle anything this bag of bones could dish out.

She didn't realize how boned she really was. Or how boned she was about to be.

* * *

"When you said you were a fuck machine, this isn't what I expected" Pires admitted, as Kennedy jacked into her heavily modified Fatshoe

* * *

Pilar sat back on the bed and huffed, crossing her arms. She hoped the Joutsens would remember this was supposed to be a threesome, before they tired each other out.

* * *

Praetor-tan sighed. How did it come to this? Were her sisters really not up to the task? It looked like it was up to her to teach this sorry skeleton why Colonel Rome called her "Wolfmother"

She was about to learn why the Brigadiscord called the sorry skeleton "daddy"

* * *

"When I'm with you, it's like... Like I never want to wake up"

The Spacer grinned, a smile that never reached his eyes.

"That can be arranged"

* * *

Deni felt a stirring in his spare parts, like his new pancreas had been improperly installed and fallen into his stomach. She was lighting a cigarette and her paint had smeared all over her face, the pillow. He wanted to die for this woman. Even more than he just wanted to die in general.

* * *

Every fiber of Pires' being was screaming at him to get out of there. But mama Pires didn't raise no bitch. Also, Kennedy had welded the cockpit shut from the inside.

* * *

Clotide was unfamiliar with dirt eater divorce rituals, requiring her to retain the aid of software, and legal counsel from the surface world, to guide her through the process. At a meeting before the hearing, the greasy lawyer asked her, for the third time, if she had any skeletons in her closet. She assured him that she did not, and he needed to drop this line of questioning.

In fact, she had one.

* * *

"That's a nice offer, but I don't um... I don't do that with... people..." Efi pointedly avoided looking at the Tinker parked in the back of the hangar.

* * *

"Why don't you marry safe sex if you love safety so much?" Kennedy grunted, metal teeth pulling the rubber cord tight around her arm. Pires thought about helping her with the needle, but immediately decided against getting within arm's reach.

* * *

Among her manyfold talents, Odetta was known throughout the Spacer Fleets and Outer Colonies as an expert cybernetist. It was her pioneering work in mirror neuron algorithms that enabled the Zed Prime to replicate the user's facial expressions, striking new levels of terror into the hearts of the dirt eaters before lasering them into oblivion.

Which is why, when the SNChannel broadcast the Touro's gun camera footage of the enormous floating head, drifting across the interchange amid HE airbursts and streams of tracers, mouth drooling and twitching, eyes rolled back, she knew exactly what the pilot inside had been doing.

* * *

Norman felt his face heat up, like his nose had been improperly set and was squirting blood everywhere. She was lighting a cigarette and her paint had smeared all over her face, the pillow. He wanted to die for this woman. Even more than he just wanted to die in general.

* * *

"What about the port on your neck?"

Kennedy squinted at him. "Listen, kid. If you can fit in there, you aren't packing anything I'm interested in. Although..." She looked pensive. "I still have some scrip left over from the merch deal, I could get it widened, and then maybe-"

"No, I meant for the needle, you..." Pires stopped when he realized what she was talking about. He shouldn't have been surprised, but he threw up a little in his mouth anyway.


End file.
